She could not submit to this. She felt it swooning over her. But she could not submit.
“But how do you know—if you have never really loved?” she asked.
“It is true, what I say; there is a beyond, in you, in me, which is further than love, beyond the scope, as stars are beyond the scope of vision, some of them.”
“Then there is no love,” cried Ursula.
“Ultimately, no, there is something else. But, ultimately, there is no love.”
Ursula was given over to this statement for some moments. Then she half rose from her chair, saying, in a final, repellent voice:
“Then let me go home—what am I doing here?”
“There is the door,” he said. “You are a free agent.”
He was suspended finely and perfectly in this extremity. She hung motionless for some seconds, then she sat down again.
“If there is no love, what is there?” she cried, almost jeering.